


Your Smile is like Sunshine

by bogbees



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), Immortality, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogbees/pseuds/bogbees
Summary: He spends two hundred years with a bright, sunny yellow tulip blooming in this throat; it spills out of his mouth when his heart fills with affection. It kills him, but he doesn't mind. Much.
Relationships: Canada/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57





	Your Smile is like Sunshine

The first time he sees Russia genuinely smile — not, wear a smile to mask his emotions but honest to goodness react with a smile, Canada knows he's in deep.

He's green behind the ears, still not as noticeable as his brother, and they've just burned down each other's capitals. He's visiting France for a summer for diplomatic reasons, which means he's just accompanying his leaders on their holiday, as they had insisted. 

Of course France whisks him away, brings him to a magnificent ballroom somewhere across Europe, he couldn't catch the location, Francis just keeps changing topics too quickly for him to learn. And when he does learn, it's much too late for him to emotionally prepare to meet other European royalty, let alone another Nationality like France and himself.

Russia is a wallflower in the sense he doesn't seem to fit in among the gilded chandeliers, wealthy fatty food and finely woven clothes. Matthew thinks he's in the same boat there, and they shyly stand around, watching the humans float around the room. At some point, they drink enough wine to start talking. And do they. They discuss everything from the party they've chosen to not participate in, to the weather, to their favourite things in the whole world. France finds them hours later, they're still talking and there's a glow that makes his heart ache because he has to end this relationship; Matthew is too young for this, for getting friendly with people who will ultimately hurt him, because that's just their whole nature.

But France doesn't know the affection has taken to Matthew's heart like a rose bush to an abandoned garden.

  
  
  


Matthew himself doesn't notice it till The Great War. He and America are arguing, stress boiling over, when Russia comes in. His fondness for the other northern nation, it's been stagnant, not really having had the chance to meet for decades, not really having much in common besides a shared love for the barren tundra under the expansive night sky. But he supposed all the northern nations feel the same way about that, remembering a time so long ago and the creaking of a wooden ship and the cold salt water of the Atlantic Ocean.

Russia doesn't do much besides growl at them to shut up, it quickly simmers their irritation with each other, and they quickly retreat to somewhere they won't get smacked, let alone death glares.

But Matthew keeps glancing back to the man, catching things that are off, like the way he's holding his arm, how his features seem ghosted by pain, and eventually Al grows bored of his company, and Matt goes to check on Russia. 

"America, go away." is how he's greeted and Canada's smile momentarily falters with a wince for both the fact he's not recognised and the cutting tone of voice.

"Not America, I'm Canada, you're bleeding, I'd like to help, if you'd let me."

Mauve eyes peer into his own lilac ones with such scrutiny he almost decides to just leave. But Russia brightens instantly, "Canada, I remember now, da." And the man pulls up the arm that's bleeding, waiting for the younger man to carry on.

Matthew quickly gets to work. They don't make idle chatter, a stark contrast to that night decades ago where all they did was converse. It would hurt, if Matthew hadn't steeled his emotions away.

"What do they call you?" Russia says when Matthew finishes. And he can really only peer back in confusion, did he already forget who he was?

"The human name," Russia nods, encouraging him to share the information, "mine is Ivan. Ivan Braviginski."

Matthew's eyes widen in understanding, "ah, yes, mine is Matthew Williams." 

Russia smiles, "Matthew! But Matvey is easier for the tongue, so I will call you that. Thank you Matvey for doing this." and then he gets up and lumbers away.

Matthew can only watch in astonishment, the gal to have the audacity to just use another name. He rolls the name around in his tongue, and finds he actually likes it, like it's a nickname and that Russia has never actually forgotten that night.

_ Ivan _ , he smiles, looking off to where he saw the man disappear, and feels a tickle in his throat before having a coughing fit. It's bad, lasting several minutes, blood decorates his hand when it ends and he finds the most peculiar thing on the tiled floor of the outpost: a yellow flower petal. His brows furrow when he sees red and with too much clarity he curses the thing.

He knows what's happening. He's seen a few humans succumb to this. He wonders how being immortal changes it. 

  
  


Being immortal doesn't help much. The rest of the war, Russia seems to notice him a little better, excited to even see him. It does not help his case, and by the end of the war, Matthew is coughing up whole yellow tulips, and he's dreading the moment someone notices his health. 

No one does. And it's so disheartening, his mood fouls even though they're winning. When it's all over, and they all head home, Russia brings it up in passing, a last farewell of sorts. He tells him he's worried over him, "Matvey, you don't look so good. Be sure to take care of yourself, da," and Matthew coughs up a bouquet of tulips and dies shortly after Ivan leaves. 

When he comes to hours later, it feels weird for his chest to feel light, like the plant had been cut back. 

He's relieved that no one seems to have found him, because there's a dozen sunny flowers thrown around, blood decorating the petals, stems, his own lips. He couldn't explain this, how the second largest country in the world had gotten the hanahaki disease. 

  
  


He learns to just turn off his feelings by the second world war. It's not like he's memorable anyways, since everyone else just forgets him, and if they don't, he's just America to them. Ivan always picks him out after some staring, sure, but even after every second of enjoying the others company, he still mistakes him for America on occasion, and sometimes even uses that stupid smile when he says it. 

Matthew feels dread seep into his soul, upon seeing that. Because that little action ensures his fate: he'll never be cured naturally, and his only salvation would be surgery, an option he resents because he doesn't want to not feel things for Ivan. 

When he corrects Ivan, he doesn't notice the smile becoming brighter at the revelation. He carries on like usual, trying desperately to emotionally distance himself from it all. Maybe he won't suffer so much.

  
  


Their relationship is vastly stronger when the second world war ends, much to Matthew's dismay. On one hand he's angry because every time he dies during it, he wakes up to more and more bright flowers and blood because he knows Ivan could never like him back, he might even hate him for it, so he doesn't bother confessing, so he continues to suffer. 

On the other, well,  _ Ivan _ . Matthew is delighted to be such good friends with the man despite everything, because well, friendship is pretty much romance just without the kissing and candle lit dinners and whispering sweet nothings under the moonlight. 

He knows this because it's how his relationship with Cuba is seeming to go, but they tend to mostly bad mouth America while eating dinner by candlelight, so maybe not exactly. 

Matthew wants to whisper sweet nothings to Ivan under the northern lights, he chews his cheek, imagining the scene and frustrated with himself for even thinking that, especially when the cold war is happening.

For forty years, Matthew has to stand by his brother, and come to terms with the whispers of rumours about Ivan and his actions with the rest of the USSR. Not to mention everything before that.

And forty years is a long time to spend thinking; he learns how much truth is carried in the rumours. With each new piece of information, he grows disgusted and frustrated with himself for having these emotions, that he had gotten the hanahaki disease for  _ Russia _ .

One night, tired of thinking, he sits and drinks a pack of coors light, a gift from Alfred, new off of the manufacturing line, he claims it's the best. But Matt thinks all American beer tastes like piss, so he guzzles it down so his disgust feels tangible. He doesn't want to feel good while he gets loaded, trying to deal with his thoughts.

By the early hours of the morning, he's thinking back to that night they shared all those years ago, Russia's stupidly warm smile, and finds he can't suddenly despise him for his past, be it his own or his nation's. He can't despise him for his current actions. He wonders if this revelation means that hanahaki is born from unconditional love. He tries not to think about it as he puts his weary head on his pillow. 

The pillow stifles his screams of frustration. Kumajiro pats his shoulder, "there, there," the bear says, "it's not your fault."

"You're right," Matthew sighs, sitting up and pulling his companion into his lap, "this world is just a bitch."

  
  


When Katshuya breaks, she visits Matthew for a weekend, wanting to be in his warm presence. They chat, not about politics, but themselves. As siblings of the most talked about countries in the world. Katshuya starts rambling about when Ivan was young, sobbing about how cute he was as she hugs a bottle of wine. Matthew is thankful he died a couple years ago in a hiking accident, because the wine tastes good and he's had too much, so his alcohol laden brain can't clamp down on his heart, and his feelings erupt from his chest in a fit of coughs. 

Katshuya rubs his back in circles, soothing him. When it's settled and there's tulip heads littering the kitchen floor, she smiles at him, "they must have a lovely smile," and helps him clean up before pretending it never happened. 

Only she mentions it when they stand around awkwardly at the airport, "you should tell them. It's not…" she struggles trying to find the English word, before she sighs in defeat. "Matthew," she starts again, eyes hardening with determination, "tell them. It's not the end of the world." 

Matthew laughs to that, death hasn't encouraged him so far.

  
  


After. He finds Ivan to be distant. More distant. Which is good for his personal health, but gnaws at him because he can't stand it. He watches and watches and finds everything to be a mask. When Ivan mistakes him for America and doesn't smile, Matthew can't even find joy, he's too distrubed by his demeanour.

And when Russia does smile, it doesn’t feel right to Matthew. Too forced, fake. Cold.

Their relationship continues to grow distant. Matthew has long since accepted this, the two oceans spanning between them, the fact Matthew's neighbour and brother happens to be the same antagonist. There's a longer list of reasons for them not having a good personal relationship, but he's decided to just forget it. Try and forget his feelings all together. Every year that passes without contact just helps him in the long run, he still might stubbornly love him, but the less reminders the better.

So time goes on. They barely interact at meetings, only really talk to each other during the Olympics, a time Matthew revels in for everyone recognises him, and Ivan actually talks to him, bonding over their shared love for sports. But, for the most part, the fact the flower growing in his lungs that endures his troubled heart, Matthew is glad to be overlooked.

  
  


Then he meets Prussia. 

The old nation is blogging, something that Matthew finds hilarious for his age and the fact old humans don't understand the internet, and by their standards, Gilbert might as well be Methuselah. 

Gilbert says something that makes Matthew's head work overtime and Matthew is then determined to help. So he grabs the thing he knows best, and goes to make the sad old man smile. 

It works. Prussia knows who he is the moment the door opens, takes a picture of him as he's explaining the visit, and after a lot of distrust, Cuba, good old Carlos, butts in telling Prussia to just eat the maple syrup. Prussia immediately understands and then, sort of latches on.

It's a good enough distraction for the short time they end up glued to the hip. It's wonderful to have someone who doesn't mistake him for anyone else. But like all good things, it crashes the moment the Vancouver Olympics start. 

Russia is much too friendly with him, considering how little they've interacted in the last few decades, the complete silence. He thinks it could be because Gilbert is always hanging around him, even during times where the country should be among their own. He shrugs, "eh, I've seen this millions of times, I just wanna hang with you, Birdie." Matthew rolls his eyes.

Eventually Matthew stops fritting around acting as Canada, and goes to enjoy the games with the others, in the viewing room reserved for them. 

He's greeted with cheers and threats to take the gold; no one has forgotten who he is. Especially not Russia, who's good mood drops and brings a chill to the air the moment he sees Gilbert hanging off Matthew's shoulders like his own jungle gym.

Ever the peacemaker, Matthew goes over to him and offers to watch hockey together, which surprises the man enough to move his eyebrows zero point five of a centimetre. Matthew smiles at catching the minor mask change.

The hockey viewing gets intense. So much so, everyone who doesn't have a team decides to just leave. Gilbert stays, choosing to wholly support Team Canada. Which doesn't improve Russia's whole mood much, but after enough alcohol gets into their system, they're just a blubbering mess proclaiming their love for the sport, for all winter sports.

Gilbert can't believe his eyes seeing that Matthew of all people gets Russia tispy enough to slur his words and share feelings. It gives him goosebumps. Fucking creepy northern nations.

When the olympic torch gets passed from Canada to Russia, Matthew and Ivan are standing side by side watching with determined delight. Gilbert stands by his statement of northern nations being creepy.

When it's all over, Matthew is a mess. His face is flushed red in splotches, his voice is pretty much gone, but he's still smiling brightly as he gives everyone a warm goodbye and thanks for coming. Gilbert laughs every time until it's Russia's turn.

"Very good game, Matvey." the giant says, and lifts up the smaller man to give him a bear hug. Gilbert's eyes bulge out of their sockets. No way did they have a relationship like that! He watches Matthew's face contort into fear and seamlessly become amicable again once he's looking back up at him. Gilbert doesn't like that much. 

Especially when he hears Matthew try to hide a cough as Russia walks away. He calls his brother, tells him not to expect him back for another week, he's going to make sure Canada doesn't push himself too hard after these weeks.

Matthew had thought Gilbert had gone to the store to buy beer, and just let himself go. Coughing and hacking so bad he doesn't hear when the door opens and the shout, only feels when Gilbert has his hand on his back.

"This isn't my fault, ja?" he says with his accent too thick, and Matthew cries, "non, non, non, I think I'd have the balls to tell you," and Gilbert laughs, gives him a noogie and helps clean up. 

It's quiet in the house for a few hours before Gilbert demands to eat pancakes, so Matthew thinks he's getting sad, and gets up to make some. Only to be pushed back down, as Gilbert says he's making them himself. He finishes and places a stack in front of him, "these things are so good, they bring happiness to all that eat them," he says pouring half a bottle of maple syrup onto the pancake stack. Matthew laughs, complaining about the awful mess.

"Is it, that bastard?" Gilbert says after Matthew has eaten. But Matthew chokes, and Gilbert jumps to his feet ready to help.

He apologizes and Matthew shakes his head, "don't worry about it b'y, I just wasn't expecting you to… figure it out. I  _ think  _ Ukraine is the only other person."

"How long?"

"Since at least the 1800s."

"Have you died from it?"

"Yeah."

"How many times?"

Matthew pauses, thinking, "at least six times. Mostly during the wars."

Gilbert whistles to that, impressed to learn that Matthew was constantly on his deathbed and yet had been so determined, so intense. 

"Kay then, do you wanna tell me about it?"

Matthew looks heart broken, "Gil, I, it hasn't been so bad in the last few years, hardly any contact to dredge up the feelings."

And Gilbert understands then. He's shut off his feelings like he has for when others just forget him. It's sad and Gilbert shovels down the rest of the pancakes and finishes off the bottle of syrup. 

"It's always the quiet ones," he snickers, which causes Matthew to lose it, and they end up on the kitchen floor clutching their sides, gasping as they scream out how fucked up it all is in between laughs. A few yellow petals litter the tiles.

Kumajiro calls them idiots and eats the unfinished pancakes.

  
  


When Gilbert leaves, three days later, Russia decides to visit.

"Matvey my friend," he begins, "we've not seen each other much, da, time to fix that."

And for the next week, Matthew skirts around trying to shut off his heart while also making sure the big bastard, as Gilbert calls him, is happy enough. 

He takes him to all the tourist places in Ottawa and surrounding areas. He even finds the patience for the long drive to Niagara Falls to show Russia the wonder.

Russia is entertained, marveling at the falls, agreeing to go on the tour boat, and they have a wonderful dinner at the restaurant. When they return, Russia  _ smiles _ as he bids him goodnight, and Matthew keels over, willing himself to quietly hack up blood and the yellow tulips. He softly whispers a string of curses in Quebecois before picking himself up and cleaning the mess.

He sees a bizarre shape in the bathroom door molding as he passes, looks like a hand pressed too tightly into it, but decides he's much too tired to care.

In the morning he makes pancakes, drenches his in maple syrup while Ivan compliments his cooking.

Matthew suggests they go out today, Ivan thinks he'd like a day in. Matthew doesn't push him, and does as his guest wishes, and they spend most of the day in comfortable silence. It's too nice.

Ivan comments on it, "Matvey is such good company. Good for hockey, good for quiet." And it's his smile, oh too warm, that does him in.

Matthew's coughs are violent and he coughs up a dozen sunny, bright, gaudy yellow tulips and blood. And the worst part is that he dies shortly after.

When he comes to, Ivan is serious. Eyes hard and Matthew realises he's seeing tears and he doesn't know what to say.

"Matvey, who causes you this pain? I will find and you can tell them, да, no more."

Matthew breaks. How could he confess now, he sniffles as tears fall down his cheeks, "it's fine." A hiccup, "I'm used to it." Harder breathing, "please don't worry about it." 

Ivan is not convinced in the slightest. "Matvey you died. If it's that Prussia…"

"No!" Matthew yells out, eyes wide, "no, no, it's not Gilbert. But it's fine, this isn't the first time I've died from it."

Ivan's face becomes harder, eyes flashing with rage, "how many times?"

Matthew rubs at his eyes, making them raw and red, "this makes seven. It's not so bad."

A whole week of dying, repeating the same thing. It twists as disgust in Ivan's stomach as he hears the truth, "Matvey tell me for how long have you had this?"

Matthew pauses and his purple eyes smudged with red from crying are too clear as he looks straight into Ivan's own. Ivan thinks the staring is supposed to translate as something, he can feel the words form on his own tongue but he can't decipher them.

"Since the first world war." Matthew says and Ivan is sure that's not the correct answer, it doesn't feel right.

  
  


The rest of the week, they tip toe around the subject. Matthew is adamant about not dealing with it, and Ivan doesn't want to upset him because it hurts him to see his face contort in despair. 

But Ivan eventually loses his control on his words and it slips out, how fond he is of Matthew and Matthew goes tumbling to the floor in a fit of coughs. 

Ivan is shouting now, russian swears coming out in terror as he tries to help.

Matthew looks up at him, his eyes so scared and horrible with pain. Ivan feels too tight and too weary looking back, "Matvey please, you are dear," he says with his hands holding onto the man, one holding the man's face whole the other holds the hand holding the bloody yellow tulip, "if their smile does bring you joy, please tell them, I do not want to see you suffer any more."

And to that, Matthew wails, the stress from this whole situation breaking him. There isn't much for Ivan to do to settle the young man besides hold him tight against him. Matthew takes to the hug like a koala and soon enough Ivan's shoulder is soaked in mucus and tears. He doesn't mind.

Matthew ends up falling asleep in arms, and Ivan effortlessly carries him back up to his bedroom. He feels wary about changing the man’s clothes, but he doesn’t want him covered in blood as he sleeps, so he pulls off the sweater as gently as he can, and blindly grabs a new shirt for him to wear. He finds a light blanket and pulls it around Matthew.

He leaves the room and leans against the door, struggling to think of what to do next. He hears claws tap against the hardwood flooring and turns to see Kumajirou watching him, "it's you." the little polar bear says, and Ivan smiles, finding it's simple language funny.

He decides to call his sister first, and they have a lengthy discussion on Matthew's health.

"I told Matvey to confess! I told him it wasn't the end of the world!" His sister sobs into the speaker, and Ivan calms her down to the best of his abilities, "I didn't know it had already killed him!"

"Who do you think it is?" he asks her after she settles her sobs and worries to just quiet sniffles.

She pauses, seeming to think it over, like she hadn't actually put a face, a name, to Matthew's love.

"Vanya," she says startled, "Vanya I think it's you." 

His eyes shoot open, "sister no, it couldn't be me —”

"— No listen brother, when I found out, it was after telling him a story from our childhood. I was gushing over how cute you were back then. And he, he fell out of the chair and started coughing, and then there was a yellow tulip on the floor. What else could have caused that? I doubt he had compared the story to one of his brother, no."

Ivan thinks to the bear, "Kumajiro said a similar thing a moment ago, after Matvey fell asleep… do you really think?" That he's suffering like this because of me?

His sister softly murmurs into the phone, "Matvey is a strong, brave boy, he's got confidence in Canada, but not Matthew. I doubt distance helps him. But Vanya, what will you do now?"

Ivan draws a blank. Feeling maybe a little too giddy at this turn of events, he can’t explain it. He apologizes to his sister and hangs up. Kumajiro's black eyes are starting back up to him, "you, yes." Ivan can't understand anything that might mean.

He's still awake hours later, moon hanging directly over the house, as he contemplates everything. By five am, he determines himself a fool, and goes to Matthew's study, pulling out a dictionary. It's in French, but his french isn't entirely rusty, so it should do well enough to find the information he wants, and looks up the words he's seeking. 

When he pulls away, he laughs, this is what happens when you don't pay attention to your thoughts or think too deeply on them. He's like this because he doesn’t just like Matthew, but like-likes Matthew! A crush! He's so elated by the discovery, so full of mirth his heart pops out of his chest. 

And is actually caught by Matthew. Their eyes are wide in shock, "Matvey?" Ivan calls out.

"I, uh, heard you laughing so I came to check up on you, and uh, I saw this," he looks at the heart slowly pulsating in his open palms, eyes wide with nervousness, "I saw this fall so I just, uh, ran to catch it."

Ivan feels too warm after listening to the explanation, knowing the truth of the matter, faintly feeling the warm hand around his heart.

"Thank you Matvey," Ivan smiles.

"Does it hurt?" Matt asks.

Ivan shakes his head, "no," and Matthew makes a sound of acknowledgement and they settle in the quiet.

"Well, uh, don't you want it back?"

"Hm, it is fine for now I think."

Matthew's brows furrow, confused, "but you need this," he insists, thrusting his hands closer to Ivan.

Ivan simply smiles, "нет, я думаю, тебе это нужно больше," he says, chuckling at his deliberate mysteriousness, and leaves Matthew to stand dumbfounded in the middle of the room as the morning sun dances through the shaking trees. 

Matthew grabs a bucket, goes outside, fills it with snow and carefully places the organ into it. He chooses to ignore Ivan's startled yelp, no doubt feeling the chill. He then shoves on his winter boots and walks into the yard, only to fall unceremoniously into the snow. The snow melts against his back and the wet is uncomfortable but he continues to stare up at the light blue of the sky. His breaths coming out in little puffs as he thinks about what it means. 

Minutes or hours later, the passage of time isn't a necessity to him right now, a shape stands in front of his view, chilling him by blocking out the sun, "Motya, you will get frostbite. Time to go inside and warm up, da." 

Matthew continues to lie on his back, now focusing on Ivan's face, "Your smile reminds me of sunshine." He feels his chest getting lighter at the somewhat indirect confession. He hopes Ivan picks up on it, he's mentioned that he knows what yellow tulips mean in hanahaki. 

Ivan smiles — and it's brighter than the sun, warmer than the sun, so much better than the smile that had him fall and Matthew decides he's absolutely in love — "I know."

Matthew frowns, such a simple response. That was what he worried about for all these years? Acknowledgement? He should have confessed, gotten it out of his system if Ivan was just going to nod and let water pass under the bridge. 

Ivan kneels, worry over his face, "я тоже тебя люблю," he says quickly.

Matthew smiles at that, "I might like you, but my russian isn't the strongest, I only know tourist things. I don't know what you're saying."

Ivan hides his cheeks behind his scarf, but Matthew can see pink on his ears, "je t'aime aussi." 

And Matthew's eyes fly open, he rushes to sit up, be eye level with Ivan, "you're just saying that," his hair is floating with the sudden movement.

Ivan is transfixed by the hair.

"No, no," he says, his accent thick, "I don't think on my feelings. But I did earlier. After you fell asleep, because it bothered me and I didn't want to hurt you.

Motya, you are very dear to me. I've been a fool to you all these years, I'm sorry I've caused you such sorrow and pain."

Matthew falls back onto the snow, "don't apologize, please. You couldn't have known. I didn't want you to know. Al, he doesn't even know. Hell, neither England or Francis know. The only people who know caught me in the act."

"But Motya…" 

"I think I would have kept it till the day I faded. I couldn't just, not, have feelings for you, so surgery was out of the question. And I dunno, telling you, presenting you with a yellow tulip splattered with blood, didn't, I didn't want you to hate me for having the audacity and never talk to me again. So it was better to hide."

Ivan feels too tight again, "no need to hide now." 

"My cowardice killed me seven times."

"Well, come on, at this rate the cold will kill you. Look, you're shivering." Ivan takes his hands and pulls up the man, dusts the snow off him, and leads him back into the house. Matthew kicks off his boots, Ivan follows suit, grabbing the bucket holding his heart. 

Matthew sits on the couch, Ivan grabs the blanket draping over it and pulls it tight around the man, tsking over the sound of teeth chattering. 

When Ivan sits, he pulls Matthew into his lap, to help with the warming process. Matthew's head rests against the crook of his neck, and it feels strange, but he doesn't dislike it. "Motya, could you show me your hand?"

Matthew raises his hand from his chest and is startled to feel the cold flesh of Ivan's heart fall into his open palm, "Ivan," he starts.

"You can put it back if you want to. I just like you holding it."

Matthew feels his face flush with heat, glad the stupid Russian man can't see his face.

"Ah, Motya feels warm, good, good, no hypothermia for you."

Matthew shoves the stupid heart against his chest, and it vanishes with so much as a grunt of acknowledgement.

"I uh sorry, didn't think, just got —"

"— Motya it's good. I like that you get flustered and are forceful."

Matthew makes a strained noise and Ivan laughs, the sound rumbles through him. When he finishes he kisses Matthew's open palm. Matthew's smile strains and he squirms against Ivan. The man takes his hand, and looks straight into Matthew's eyes.

"Matthew," he begins, instantly setting Matt's heart on fire while his own cheeks are ablaze with red, "I would like to be together with you."

Matthew stares back at the man, eyes wide, mouth hanging agape in disbelief, and he's under the impression that with how Ivan's eyes dart to his lips, he desperately wants to capture them with his own. Matthew smiles.

Only to find himself coughing. When his lungs settle, tears budding in his eyes from the pain, yellow petals litter their laps. "I'm pretty sure this is actually two hundred years old," he begins softly, rubbing his thumb over Ivan's hand, "so it won't be gone so quickly… but if you're only interested because you feel bad, I'd rather not —”

"— you do remember that night." Ivan interrupts quickly.

Matthew is slow to answer, not that he doesn't forget, good god, _ how could he forget _ , but he doesn't understand how it's relevant, "yes."

"I think, that night was the night I fell in love with you."

"Ivan no, you didn’t, you don't have to say that, you honestly don't need to reciprocate my feelings —”

"Matthew shut up," Ivan says taking Matthew's face into his hands, forcing them to have eye contact, "listen to me, please Motya, that night was just as meaningful to me.

"But the problem is that I don't like to think about my feelings, it hurts most of the time. For all this time, you were a friendly face."

"But you mistook me for Al a lot…"

"Motya, you're difficult to see in a crowd, hardly you ever join the rest of us. I mistake America for you most, get disappointed it's not you, he's so annoying. I don't even register his face, just vague shapes and colours. If I did, I'd know the difference; your nose is sharper, eyes more pretty, jaw stronger, softer cheeks. Taller even. No fat, lanky like beanpole. Oh, and hair is nicer too, more like wheat field, homely." He lists off, delighted seeing red spread across Matthew's face again. 

"That time you sat on me?" he grasps at something to prove the opposite.

"Da, you are hard to see in a crowd. Didn't notice you were there, I think you can turn invisible at will, like America's super strength. You were very comfortable, can we do that again?"

Matthew pulls away from Ivan's gaze to bury his face in his hands, face much too hot for the embarrassing words he's hearing, "did you even notice?"

"After a minute, but it would be strange for me to just change seats, da. And I think it was nice being in your company."

"Tabarnak." Matthew curses, "if you sit on me again, it won't be wholly innocent."

Ivan's smile grows wider, "Motya is so bold, not even first date!"

Matthew slaps at Ivan's arm, vainly, stifling a cough which puts out the light mood.

"Matthew," Ivan begins, his heart feeling heavy in his chest, that it might fall out again, "I've held you dearly for these two hundred years as well. I… would like to be better friends, kiss, be, what's the word," Ivan trails off, brows knitted in annoyance that his English vocabulary puttered out.

"Together?" Matthew supplies.

"Yes, but, solo. Special."

"Oh." Matthew's eyes are wide in realisation, "exclusive? You don't want to share?"

"Da, that's the word! Exclusive. Just us together."

"Who?" Kumajiro interrupts.

Matthew's smile betrays him and it breaks into a grin, teeth showing as his eyes light up, he looks at Kumajiro, "Canada and Russia."

Ivan feels too soft watching Matthew smile, "da, Motya, your smile is like sunshine."

And Matthew pauses, thinks of years of sunny yellow tulips, and decides yeah, this is love. The disease won't be cured without him confessing, honestly truly speaking those three words. He bites at his lips, pulling back his smile because he feels too giddy.

He looks back to Ivan, sees that smile, and for once the affection that blooms in his chest doesn't turn into violent coughing, but his eyes do tear up at the thought, "I love you."

**Author's Note:**

> Frontispiece by Sara Generis is one of my faves so like, if you read this and the starting seemed familiar, yeah.
> 
> tbh i started off with a drawing, but like, by the time i had thrown some colour on it, I was imagining a whole story in my head, so here we are. 
> 
> i also kinda hate it bc there's not enough blatant "oh shit russia had feelings too," but since it was primarily canada pov, i hope you can see the little hints at that i tried to slip in.....


End file.
